. . . and when I'm down, 
when I'm down,
and she wants me now,
and when she wants me now
—then I start to climb . . .




Cold flagstone, washed
and swept clean,
potted geraniums and foxgloves
struggling to climb in scarce sunlight.
A neighbour
peers over the wall, on tiptoes,
comparing and contrasting
minimal squares
in linear cells of shadow.

A brief glimpse of a swift,
sleeping on the wing,
suddenly there then gone
— connections cut before the heart
can rise to find substance
in coloured heights,
anchored still 
as it is
to circadian greys.




The wind in hollows unfrequented,
gathering the detritus
among bare-branched forms.
A copse; a corpse,
the land lies dead,
the grass sullen and yellow;
the day stunted and short.

We peel back the veneer
of discarded hours,
the gusts in our hair
and sombre halls,
confessing ageing sins
in rescinding echoes,
the shadows lengthen;
the evening falls


No More

This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Though it 
doesn't explicitly say so, I wrote it on the 
death of my father, fourteen years ago today.

No More

No more. No more bleaching white

the nicotine stained flesh

of your fingers,

picking at the sterile 

veneer of cordiality 

amidst the well-thumbed

scattered deserts

from which ruins strive to rise.

No more counting down the markers,

elbows jostling territorially,

courting, sequential swans

rising in toasts, triumphant.

Your slow, inexorable withdrawal 

left behind a vacuum,

the equilibrium of a table

out of kilter.

No longer the trumpeted parading 

of the heir apparent,

the tedious repetition 

of vine and tongue,

reproduced seasoned lines 

framing the true inheritance 

and held to likeness.

Casual comparity no more. No more.

©Andrew James Murray



a hollowed out,
 rictus grin
 placed prominently
 at this liminal time

a curious crossroads
 of old and new
 with but a cursory nod
 to the peaceful host

frail shelter
 from this Samhain storm
 a rail of russet leaves 
 and borne
 the broken limbs
 of oak

and scorned
 a single flame,